


WBT: Wakandan Ballet Therapy

by sunnyplant



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Ballet, Cute, Dancing, F/M, Flashbacks, Fluff, Healing, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Russian Bucky Barnes, Russian Natasha Romanov, Sentimental, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22738342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnyplant/pseuds/sunnyplant
Summary: Sam signed up for a trial lesson. Shuri was already plotting business expansion. T’Challa looked on with a bemused expression. And Steve? He did something very Steve-y. He signed up for class too, but he put down two names.And that’s how, six months after the unofficial opening of Wakandan Dance Academy, Bucky Barnes found himself at the mercy of none other than Natasha Romanoff.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 14





	1. Lesson 1 Warm-up

### Lesson 1 Warm-up

Natasha couldn’t breathe. Her stomach contorted itself into a confused knot, rib cage tucked in as if her lungs have collapsed. She tried to get a hold of herself, but with her lips shut tight into a thin line she couldn’t—

“I’m gonna kill you for this.”

She couldn’t stifle her laughter anymore. Moving away from the barre which she was leaning on a few moments ago, she walked to the centre of the studio and peered down at the huffing figure lying on the hardwood floor, like how a ballet teacher would look at a toddler trying to do a somersault for the first time. 

“Sure thing Barnes. If you survive this session without passing out.” Natasha raised her eyebrows, the ghost of a smirk glistening off her face. 

One metal finger promptly shot up. 

When did it all happen?

Maybe the White Wolf grew tired of chopping firewood and cleaning sheep dung. Maybe he spent too much of his nights gazing wide eyed at the thatched roof, or at the stars, or tossing and turning in bed, images flashing in the back of his mind like a slideshow of red and darkness. 

Or maybe Natasha just wanted to get away from Steve and Sam for a while. 

Between missions they usually allowed themselves the privilege of staycation—one day, two days, just to cool down and let the body rest a bit. Well, Steve and Sam did—Natasha? 

Natasha thought of herself as the manifestation of restlessness. Her body was constantly in motion: tapping her feet when she was impatient, flexing her wrists when she felt like strangling someone, rolling her head and popping the joints in her neck while waiting in line for her coffee. You see the funny thing is, she is not fidgeting because she is nervous, she is fidgeting to shed the bundles of energy coiled tightly within her core. If she is not moving, she is forced to sit still. And if she sits very still, she inevitably starts thinking. Thinking leads to reminiscing and before she knew it everything started spiralling downward and it all goes to shit. 

So. No reminiscing. No sitting still. 

“I have a feeling you will love our new facility, Agent Romanoff.” Shuri winked. The elevator door opened and Natasha let out a sound that was part-gasp, part-sigh, part-purr. She was almost afraid to step inside the room, lest it was just some illusionistic hologram the Wakandan princess had conjured to make fun of her. Everything looked amazing: the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, the piano at the left corner, the red velvety drapes, the barre—oh, _the barre!_

“From now on, we are going to Wakanda between missions.” Natasha announced during dinner. 

“Why?” Sam. “What for?” Steve. 

She shrugged. “Debriefing. Regrouping. Recuperation. Therapy.”

“Therapy? What kind of therapy?” Steve frowned. 

She meant dancing. 

_“I’M. GONNA. KILL. YOU. FOR. THIS.”_

One would be logical in thinking there was nothing the Winter Soldier couldn’t do. So it surprised Natasha even, when she learnt that he struggled to do a split. 

If only Clint was here. He nailed the split, and other types of stretching too. Hell, if he had stretched before going to rescue Wanda, he could take down Vision. 

Natasha couldn’t help but judge.

“Can you try coming up with different variations of the same threat. It’s getting repetitive.”

At first she didn’t mean to involve anyone. She would just come here alone, put on her ballet slippers and go through her usual routine. In some way, dancing is like healing. Your body takes over; all the troubles of life fade into a harmless white noise, and when the music starts you close your eyes and _leap_. 

_Don’t think_ , she told herself. _Just trust the muscles_. The brain might betray you, muscles won’t. 

She tested the water with a simple relevé to see if she still got her balance. Then first arabesque. A single pirouette. Double. Triple. She was moving faster than the wind, gliding across the floorboards like a happy tornado on its way to destroy people. Word got out quickly that the infamous Black Widow was secretly executing enemies in the royal gymnasium; why else would she be panting like a cow and sweating rivers, with a feverish grin on her face every time she emerged from there? 

Oh well, if only they could see her splaying starfish-like after a particularly rigorous session, giggling to herself like an idiot. She wriggled her toes, massaged her arms and arched her back. The body loved dancing: it reacted the same way when a beloved lost item had come into its possession again. It groaned and hummed in nostalgia, it shivered and trembled at the memory of old habits. The dance was written into her DNA, imprinted in her mind like a stubborn bloodstain she could never get rid of. Every part of her, was born to dance. From her bones and sinew down to the very last fingertip. 

Natasha was many things. She was trained to be a killer, programmed to be a machine, made to be a spy. 

_But she was born to dance._

Word got out quickly, disseminate like wildfire burning across the plains of Wakanda. The first batch of curious onlookers arrived one evening, little boys and girls on their tiptoe trying to sneak a peak of Black Widow ‘executing people’. Shuri didn’t stop them; if anything she was encouraging them. Once they realized the only execution happening in that room were dance steps, the children grew bolder. They pressed their eager faces on the glass window, admiring the spinning ballerina, even applauding when she had landed perfectly after a grand jeté. 

_Please, I was Bolshoi material._ Natasha allowed herself a sliver of vanity. 

Soon the onlookers were dancers as well. Amateur, beginners, fumbling with their mismatched leggings and slippers. 

“Have you thought of switching careers? I’m just saying, full-time ballet teacher and part-time Avenger is not a bad idea.” Shuri flipped her smart pen while mulling the question. She was busy designing prototypes for Natasha’s brand new pointe shoes. 

“Hm. Not a bad idea at all.” Natasha replied, her nose buried in a book she found on choreography. 

“Might bring in some extra cash too…oh oh wait! You know what I was thinking? Okoye keeps bombarding T’Challa with plans of opening up Wakanda and holding the Olympics and everything, and this could be _it!_ The first ever Wakanda Dance Academy. Hang on I have some spare ideograms that I was workshopping before maybe I can…” When it comes to design and planning, leave it to Shuri to babble for hours. 

But the Dance Academy mostly gained its clientele through word-of-mouth. It was never a formal gathering, since nobody could say exactly when the Black Widow was going to pop in for classes—the hustle-bustle of an Avenger, _duh_ —but within half a year she had managed to secure quite a number of loyal supporters. 

Sam signed up for a trial lesson. Shuri was already plotting business expansion. T’Challa looked on with a bemused expression. And Steve? He did something very Steve-y. He signed up for class too, but he put down two names. 

And that’s how, six months after the unofficial opening of Wakandan Dance Academy, Bucky Barnes found himself at the mercy of none other than Natasha Romanoff. 


	2. Lesson 2 Barre

### Lesson 2 Barre

Rule number 1: before you learn how to dance, first you have to learn how to stand.

“You’re slouching.”

“Am not.”

“Yes you are.”

“AM NOT.”

This has been going on for a good thirty minutes. 

Natasha thought dragging Barnes through splits and front kicks was the worst of it, but apparently the nightmare had just begun. Maybe he was unused to the dance costume. Was it the leotard that was too tight? Or the black shorts that wrapped around his thick thighs, the muscles pulled taut—

_Stop thinking about his thighs._

She stood behind him and pinched his shoulder blades. “You need to expand them. Broaden your shoulders, but don’t put too much stress. Your neck should be longer, head facing forward…” she tried recalling the terms, the special set of vocabulary her trainers used when she was just a little girl in a plain hand-me-downs uniform. She tried picturing the studio in Moscow, how it would seem to be so cavernous, like a hollow crystal cave imprisoning clueless children with its empty walls and cold mahogany floors. The chandelier dangling lifelessly, graceful even in death. The other Widows, with eyes devoid of feelings and collarbones jutting out. The men in black suits, conversing under their breath. 

The snow. Outside the window. Everything is so, so cold. 

She recalled how each snowflake would fall soundlessly to the windowsill, and in that split millisecond before they vanished, Natasha was certain she could see its exact octagonal shape. Then she blinked, and it was gone. Crushed to the numbing whiteness, any trace of its delicate existence wiped clean.

_Graceful even in death._

But that was all she had. That studio, that winter, that life. The closest albeit twisted resemblance, of home. 

дом.

“Am I doing this right?” Barnes looked at her with a strange, faraway gaze. 

For some reason she did not meet his eyes. “No. Yes. Good enough.” To prevent herself from thinking about Russia anymore, she made an attempt at humour. “I’m surprised it took you this long to learn how to stand properly. Did they not teach you the correct posture before they put you back in cryo chamber?”

She could physically feel the sting, the bite of her words. _Fuck._

“I’m sorry, that came out wrong—”

“It’s fine. Nat.”

Her breath hitched. _Don’t think don’t think don’t think—_

She risked a glance at him. He was silent, his pupils reflecting her image. She was looking at him, but she was also looking _into_ him, and in him she was looking back _at_ her. 

“It’s fine,” he repeated. His eyes never strayed from her face. Then, with a bit of hesitation, he reached out, with his right arm, his human arm. He reached for the closest part of her. 

Sharp coldness rested on her wrist, right where her pulse was jumping. 

_Everything is so, so cold._

Like being electrocuted, she recoiled immediately, her hand shrinking away from him, and she hated herself for that. He retreated almost instantly too, his face unreadable. Natasha’s spy instinct told her there was a momentary flash of hurt behind his eyes.

“Your hand is cold.” she stated matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah. Maybe if I actually start dancing instead of standing at the exact same spot for thirty minutes, my blood will get running.”

The snowflake paused in mid-air for a fraction of a second. 

Then time flowed again, and the snowflake fell on her lips.

She smiled. “Not so fast soldier. Come lie with me.”

He did a double take. _“What?”_

She moved away from the barre and lied down on her back, patting the empty space beside her. “Come lie with me.”

She loved seeing him getting confused. When he was not the Winter Soldier, he was literally an open book for anyone to read. His range of emotions were written plainly on his face. He tilted his head slightly, like a feline, then sniffed his nose once, twice. He ruffled his hair before slowly, reluctantly detaching himself from the barre. 

Inside, Natasha screamed. _He’s cute._

Gingerly he plopped himself down, mimicking her, lying flat on his back. Natasha scooted closer and sat cross-legged beside him. 

“It’s not enough knowing how to stand. You need to learn how to breathe.”

“I need to learn how to breathe.” He deadpanned. 

She laughed, and she could tell he was doing the same. “Not with your lungs, but with your diaphragm.”

“…Aren’t they kind of similar?”

“Normally when we breathe in, our rib cage expanded outward. When we breathe out, it collapses inward. Correct?” She was being patient. “And that’s how you are breathing now. The only problem it creates, when you’re breathing lying down, is that there is a gap between the small of your back and the floor.” She snaked one palm between that gap, her fingers slightly grazing his leotard. “Can you feel it?”

“Yes.”

“Make it disappear.”

“What?” Confused Barnes vol. 2.

“The gap. I want you to make it disappear. Use whatever ways you can think of, to make the small of your back touch the floor while maintaining breathing.”

He blinked a couple of times before her words registered any meaning. Then he tried to do it. At least he thought he was doing it; the way Natasha saw it, he was wriggling uncomfortably like a mealworm. 

She placed a hand on his abdomen, just below his rib cage, and applied the slightest bit of pressure. “Here. Go down. Lie flat on your back. Make that gap disappear.”

She was pretty sure he had stopped breathing altogether. Slowly, slowly but surely, she felt him succumbing to her order, his back gently lowering into her palm, and then he was crushing her, and then she had to withdraw her hand away from the small of his back because now there was no space left. Looking at his abdomen, she could see the steady rise and fall, while his rib cage remained tightly tucked in, barely moving. 

She resisted, but the corners of her mouth tugged upward involuntarily. “Congratulations, Barnes. You have now mastered the skill of breathing properly.”

He placed his human arm on his tummy, just like what Natasha had done a few minutes ago, feeling the difference of breathing with his lungs and breathing with his diaphragm. Then he changed to his metal arm. Something akin to firefly glow shimmered in his eyes. He looked at her. “I get it now. This is the core strength of my body, isn’t it? When I’m dancing.”

“When you’re dancing. When you’re fighting. When you’re living.”

He nodded, then said, “Bucky.”

“What?” For the first time, Natasha was confused. 

Then he did something that tilted the Earth’s orbit. He flashed her one of his brightest smiles. “I want you to call me Bucky.”

_The snowflake paused in mid-air for a fraction of a second._

_Then time flowed again, and the snowflake fell on her lips._

_Finally, with a sigh, she felt it melted on the tip of her tongue._

“Sure.” Natasha whispered. 

She didn’t remember how the rest of the barre exercise went. It was all just a blur, a whirr of arms and legs and plié and grand battement and lots of sweating. The whole time Natasha had the smiling face of Bucky imprinted on her mind. 

“I’ll see you next time?” Bucky said, licking sweat from his Cupid’s bow. 

“Sure, Barnes—Bucky.” _Why was her cheeks flushed?!_

When he smiled his million-dollar smile, she knew this would be her undoing. 

She was _oh so fucked_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I had the full intention of describing the barre exercises in detail, from plié to battement tendu to grand battement, everything. The full treatment. But then of course the breathing exercise happened, and I got distracted by the image of Bucky Barnes licking sweat from his Cupid's bow, and then there's that. Yeah. Sorry not sorry. Again, constructive criticism and comments are welcomed. Thanks, love you

**Author's Note:**

> I always wonder what is the relationship between Natasha and ballet. Does she like it, or hate it because it reminds her of her past. Anyways I took some liberties in interpreting that. Planned five chapters, two written, chapter 3 loading. Constructive criticism and comments are welcomed, love y'all.


End file.
